Wasted
by becka
Summary: Slash. Xander's got powers, but how does he deal with them?
1. The Spiral

Title: Wasted

Author: Becka  
Pairing: Xander/Spike.

Warnings: Abuse, Angst, AU, Brutality, Child-abuse, Dark, Disturbed, Drug-use, Language, Self-injury, Xander-torture, Yoai/Slash.

Disclaimer: Neither Angel nor Buffy, the Vampire Slayer belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

o

I want to say that I didn't see it coming, but I promised myself that I would never lie again.

The truth is, I saw it coming. I saw it coming from a mile away.

It wasn't a sudden change or anything. It wasn't like the warning signs weren't there. I'm Sunnydale-born-and-raised; my ears are fine-tuned for that sort of shit.

I guess it's confusing. Fuck, I can look back and see that everything was so messed up and stupid, easy. I don't need a fucking therapist to tell me that.

Hindsight's perfect, you know. I know where this started. I can pinpoint it to the exact fucking __second__. I can draw you up a timeline with names and events, and I'll tell you right now, it's a fucking __spiral__.

Maybe that's inspiration, the little muse I never knew I had. Because it's my life we're talking about here, and that spiral goes in one direction - straight down.

You can follow it all the way. You can find it at the bottom of every bottle. You can see it with the flick of a fingernail against a needle. You can choke on it when the gun's shoved halfway down your throat and some homophobic sadist tells you to suck it nice and slow.

I'm a poster-child for childhood trauma, and it's followed me since my mother shoved me headfirst into this hellhole. Ask my dad. He'll tell you I'm the biggest accident of his pathetic life.

Then again, we live on the Hellmouth. Accidents happen.

But you can be sure he regrets drinking the abortion money. You can fucking bet on it.

o

I guess I started out normal enough. Middle-class family with a mother that baked the world's worst meatloaf and a father who got his jollies off in front of a television when Monday Night Football was on. Me? I was the kid who was afraid of the dark, and my mother looked under my bed for monsters every night just to shut me up.

Dark hair, dark eyes, and a smile that was always short a tooth. I guess I should be grateful my dad caught onto the child-abuse laws and stopped hitting me in the face. See, it's okay if you beat your kid with a belt, just so long as no one sees the welts.

I got yelled at a lot, for stupid shit mostly. Kids have this habit of knocking stuff over or dropping the beers they're supposed to fetch from the fridge until they develop a little thing called hand-eye coordination. I'd be willing to bet that if my dad hadn't killed my brain cells by bashing my head against the wall so much, I'd have developed them a lot sooner.

Still, it's a great excuse for teachers. Sorry, Ms. Paterson, I'm just clumsy, I guess.

I don't really know why I covered it up. I could have told them I was being abused, could have proved it with the scars on my back, the cigarette burns on my arms, the bruises on my stomach. I could have showed them the imprints on my arms and throat from beefy fingers that always seemed to squeeze the life out of me. I could have even repeated some of the names my father called me - you know, the ones little kids aren't supposed to learn until they're old enough to watch R-rated movies.

I could have. But I never did.

I just smiled at my teachers and told them I got cold really easy when they asked about the long-sleeve shirts in the middle of August.

I started learning how to cover his tracks when I was about six or seven. Why? I don't know. I guess I was scared. Maybe I thought if the world found out what a useless fuck-up I was, they'd side with my dad.

It's not like I really remember too much from back then. It's a blessing, if you think about it. I can't tell you about the first time he hit me because it's not something that sticks out. I remember the worst times, but those in-between backhands? The one-two sting of his belt? It's not like they were anything special. My only reminders are my scars, and I got rid of every mirror in my apartment ages ago.

Time passed. I got older. I filled out, put on some muscle. But I could never bring myself to hit him. I could never cross that line from fuck-up to victim. By the time I was fourteen, I knew I deserved everything he could give me and so much more. Fourteen is where I'll mark the beginning of my timeline. September 18th, 1995 - that was my fourteenth birthday, and two things happened.

The first was the discovery of something I like to call oblivion.

And the second was that I found out the monsters under my bed were real.

See, as I got older, my body wasn't the only thing that filled out. My mind... well, let's just say that did a little expanding of its own. When my father beat me, sure I was frightened. But I was angry, too. I was full-up with hatred, with rage, with a torrent of dark emotion that swirled around my head. And overriding everything else was the knowledge that I deserved it.

That confused me at first. I didn't deserve it, did I? I knew I was worthless, but no one deserves to have the snot kicked out of them for something they can't control. But my father felt I deserved it, and that's what I felt too.

Everyone else calls it empathy. Me? I call it shitty luck.

I learned, bit by bit, about my "gifts." I learned that I could sense emotions, pretty strongly, and that I could occasionally push them a little. Hell, I never studied for a math class in my life. I just pushed a bit of sympathy onto Mr. Johnson and let nature take its course.

Every birthday, it got stronger. Empathy is a powerful thing. And on the Hellmouth, it's painful as well. I'll get into that a little later. My other abilities developed along the way. Telekinesis, which was great when I needed to provide a bit of a distraction for my dad. When the beatings were too much, I'd ring the doorbell, and by the time he finished scouring the neighborhood for the "little punks who were trying to pull a fast one on him," he'd have totally forgotten about the boy bleeding to death in his basement. Of course, it was also pretty helpful when I was trying to keep my blood __in__ my body on the way to the hospital.

The pyrokinesis wigged me out a bit. When I get mad, and I mean fucking red-hot pissed, things have a tendency to spontaneously combust. After that developed, I started getting real damned good at controlling my temper. That hasn't changed much. I still hold it all in, but every once in a while, I need to let it loose, and when I do, it's like the fires of hell come to earth. It took the firefighters three days to subdue my most recent temper tantrum.

Clairvoyance is a pain in the ass. I've had six years to try and understand it, but I'm still clueless. It hits me every once in a blue moon, a barrage of images that I can't put together. Totally useless until __after__ whatever my prophecy's about has happened. It's only by looking back that I can see where it all comes together.

And my last "gift" is the worst of them all. Psychometry, that's what they call it in the books I've studied. To touch an object and have it tell you all about its last owner. But when someone touches me, God, it's more than I can fucking bare. It's like every single event that shaped their life is trapped behind a floodgate, and when they touch me, it opens up and drowns me. I know what torture is. And it's because of my psychometry that I can endure any torture without a cry.

I'd dealt with my father since, well, forever. I learned to endure pain. But sometimes the feelings of the whole fucking __town__ would just overwhelm me, and sometimes it was more than I could take, y'know? Someone would brush against me in the hallway, and I had to fight against falling to my knees and screaming.

It was only by chance that I stumbled across a little drug I fondly call oblivion.

Everyone else calls it heroin.

September 18th, 12:30 p.m., math class. My teacher's hand accidentally brushed against my own when he was returning an assignment. Forcing the bile down, I hoarsely whispered that I wasn't feeling well and asked to be excused.

Five minutes later my head was buried in the toilet as I brought breakfast up for a second look.

A voice behind me slurred, "Shit, man, you okay?"

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and turned. The boy was a little bit older than I was, and his bright, blue eyes were bloodshot and glazed.

"Shit," he repeated stupidly, giving me a cursory glance, "You look like you could use a hit." He squatted on the floor and unzipped his bag, pulling out all the standard paraphernalia: a belt, a spoon, a few sterilized needles.

Contrary to popular belief, I wasn't a complete idiot. I knew what he was offering.

Or maybe I was as much of an idiot as everyone said because I welcomed him with open arms.

Both of us crammed into one of the stalls, and he dropped one of the pills onto the spoon and used a lighter to liquefy it. A cotton ball was employed to soak it up, and a needle to extract it. I can still remember the flick of his fingernails against the needle, and the tiny little squirt that came out the tip. I can still remember him showing me how to tighten the belt around my arm, where to inject myself. I can still remember the tiny pinch as the needle pierced my skin.

And, God help me, I can still remember how fucking fantastic it felt.

The kid's name was Jesse. In those five minutes, he became the first and best friend I'd ever had.

We stumbled out of school and spent the rest of the day lying next to each other in the cemetery, too high to even move. I don't think I can even begin to explain how fucking __beautiful__ it was. As the drug worked its way through my system, the feelings that constantly haunted me faded into black nothingness. I touched Jesse's hand, and there was __nothing__ there. No feelings, no thoughts, no motley kaleidoscope of imagery.

I felt nothing. Even my own thoughts paled in the buffer of my oblivion.

We lay there until nightfall. I think we might have shot up again, but I'll be honest. I was too lost in not feeling to remember much else besides that. We might have talked, or we might have just lain there. Hell, we could have fucked like rabbits, and I wouldn't remember it.

What I __do__ remember was a vampire sinking his teeth into my neck.

Heroin's sort of funny like that. One minute I was laying there, lost in the joy that for a fleeting moment I could pretend I was normal, and the next minute there was this __pain__ that I'd never felt before. I could deal with it, but it snapped me out of my happy little reverie.

It dawned on me that I was up-close and personal to one of the monsters under my bed, and then the vampire pushed me away and spat in disgust, "Fuckin'__junkie__."

Mark that on the timeline as the first time anyone called me a junkie.

Be warned though - it was far from the last.

So there I was, sprawled out next to this kid I'd just met, confronted with a nasty that went bump in the night. My neck was bleeding, I think, and Jesse had this horrified look on his face, and the vampire was sneering at us. There was this sort of bizarre quiet that came over the cemetery. Guess someone was taking "silent as the grave" a bit literal.

And then I opened my mouth and the first thing that came out was, "You want some?"

The vampire blinked stupidly, staring at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had, but I was too high to care.

Then he laughed. "Fuckin' riot, you are. You do know what I am, right?"

"Vampire?" I hazarded.

"And you want to shoot up with me?" The disbelief in his voice was tinged with a touch of curiosity. I knew, in that moment, that I would save or damn myself with my next words.

"Well," I drawled, "S'not like it'd kill you, right?"

He laughed again, and I got the impression that I'd amused him. "Fuckin' junkie," he muttered. Then he picked up the belt from the grass and tightened it like a noose around his arm. That seemed to snap Jesse out of his stupor, and he quickly prepared a needle as the vampire sat down on the grass next to us.

"Wot's your name, junkie?" he said, hissing a little as my new-found friend injected him. Jesse had prepared two more needles and I silently thanked him as the vampire offered me the belt.

Slipping it around my arm, I replied, "Xander. You?"

"Spike," he said shortly.

I reached up a hand and absently wiped the blood from my neck. I felt the sting of the needle in my other arm, and I closed my eyes and let everything drift away.

Sitting in the cemetery, shooting up with a vampire, trying to block the voices in my head, I knew.

I knew then and there that I was damned.

I just didn't care.

o

It's kind of funny, I guess, but that's how the next year of my life passed by. I went to school because I had no choice, and in the breaks between class, Jesse and I would sneak off to the bathrooms or the boiler room and lose ourselves. The heroin made it all right because we didn't have a group or a clique or whatever. We were the freaks, the odd ones out. Cordelia Chase's little posse would whisper and point whenever we passed them in the halls, but they wouldn't look us in the eyes.

There was another group, too. Buffy Summers had just moved to town and befriended Willow Rosenberg. It wouldn't have mattered to me, but Jesse __adored__ Willow, and had been trying to get up the courage to even talk to her. The one time he did manage to stutter out a "hello," Buffy swiftly intervened and snipped, "She's got better things to do than talk to you, burnout."

I couldn't care less how she treated me, but Jesse was a good guy. I fucking hated her after that.

Anyway, after school we'd slip off to the cemetery and Spike would roll around just as the sun faded from the sky. Sometimes he'd shoot up with us, but most of the time, he taught us. Or rather, he taught me.

I guess I was his pet project or something.

It was a week or two after we'd first met, and he'd said, "Fuckin' pathetic, you are. Loungin' in a bloody cemetery without a care. Suppose I 'afta fix that." And he did. He whipped me into shape faster than I thought possible, but it was nothing like the movies. In the movies, the fights are beautifully choreographed, like a fucking ballet or something. The moves Spike showed me were cheap, dirty, and effective as hell.

Jesse would sit on the sides, watching, as Spike taught me how to fight.

Looking back, I can see he was teaching me how to kill, but I don't care. Other than Jesse, those memories are probably the only good thing that came out of Sunnydale.

I remember this one time he got really frustrated with how I failed to put all my weight behind my punches. I think I snipped something about how he wasn't explaining it very well, and he turned around and fucking clocked me, all his vampiric strength behind that single hit.

I hit my knees. It hurt like hell, and a couple of flecks a light danced in front of my eyes. There was a buzzing in my ears, but slowly I started to hear someone calling my name.

"Aw, fuck, Xan, look at me. C'mon, please..." Spike's voice said, and gentle fingers touched my face.

"You broke my jaw," I tried to say, but it came out sounding more like, "Yuh buh muhha."

"Shit, shit, shit," Jesse muttered.

"Sorry 'bout that, pet. Need to get you to the 'ospital. Look, when they ask you wot 'appened-"

"Thuh wuh," I said.

Apparently Spike understood me because he blinked and asked, "Why not?"

"Cuh thuh nehhu huh buhuh."

Now, I know that people say vampires are pale, and I also know that there's no blood running through their veins, but in that moment, it looked like all the color had drained out of Spike's face.

Jesse glanced at Spike and asked, "What'd he say?"

And maybe my ears were still ringing, because it sounded like there was something stuck in Spike's throat when he replied, "He said they won't ask what 'appened, 'cause they never 'ave before."

They took me to the hospital, and the doctors patched me up without question. Spike never asked me what I meant, and I never tried to explain myself, but he knew. He never hit me again, either. He started bringing fledgling vampires with him occasionally, and demonstrated on them instead.

He brought other demons, too. Said he'd found them along the way, and taught me how to kill them.

It was fucked up, but it made me feel better.

On the nights that he shot up with us, he'd start talking. He'd tell us about the places he'd been, the things he'd seen. He'd recite bad poetry and rattle off ten ways to kill a Benslaxy demon in the same breath. There were times he'd speak in other languages that I didn't understand, or say things that I just didn't get, but during the day I'd research them. Half of his gift was teaching me. The other half was making me curious enough to learn.

My parents were under the impression that I was an idiot. My teachers seemed to think that I didn't like learning. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The problem I had with them was that I wasn't interested in what they were teaching.

So under Spike's guidance, I learned Latin, Gaelic, and a couple of other odd languages. He showed me how to hot-wire just about any vehicle I could get my hands on. He insisted that I be able to recognize mostly every demon in existence, know how to bargain with them, and if that didn't work, how to kill them. Jesse and I made our first fake IDs under his watchful eye, and while he said it was impossible for us to pass for twenty-one, we could at least pretend we were eighteen if we wanted to buy cigarettes.

In the same regard, he took us to get our first tattoos. I wanted something that covered my whole back, but I knew it was impossible because of all the scar tissue. So Jesse got his on his left shoulder and I got mine on the right - a railroad spike and a needle full of blood crossed over each other.

Spike and Jesse were like my family. Psychotic, drugged-up, fucked-up, yes, but they cared about me more than anyone else, and I love them for it. Two junkies and a vampire - sounds like the start of a really bad joke. But I never told them about my gifts. I guess I cared about them too much and the fear of rejection was still there.

I had a year with them - one screwy, messed up, perfect year. I used to be so afraid that someone would take them away because Spike and Jesse were too good to be true.

And then, someone did.

o


	2. Symptoms of Withdrawl

Title: Wasted

Author: Becka

Chapter 2: Symptoms of Withdrawal

o

It was just after the start of the new school year, just after the best summer of my life. Spike had taken us on a three-month tour of Europe, what he called the best blood-and-bones cities in the world. Barcelona, Berlin, Paris, Rome, we saw them all. We shot up and partied and killed demons. I never thought it was strange that a vampire would teach two humans to kill his own kind because it was Spike, and Spike did whatever he wanted.

The one time Jesse asked him about it, he just laughed and said it reminded him of the old days.

He said he'd probably turn us one day, but I never thought too much about it. We were young, and he liked having two kids who adored him. Or maybe he just liked corrupting us. I don't know. We could go out during the day, run errands for him when he asked, and he treated us better than anyone else ever did.

But I never told either of them about my gifts.

And, man, did that fuck me over.

Jesse and I were waiting in the cemetery when it happened. The sun had gone down and Spike was late. It wasn't unusual, because, really, how do you get a master vampire to dance to any beat but his own? So we waited and talked and poisoned ourselves with heroin and nicotine and a bottle of Bacardi.

I'd just finished the last of it when I heard them.

The bottom always comes too soon, y'know?

They were quiet, but I'd been trained to pick up on creatures of the night, and the living have a heartbeat. You tune your ears for it, and it's like a symphony of drums. There's blood pounding through veins like quicksilver, and the tiniest hitch of breath, and maybe I was drunk and making it all up, but I heard them.

"All the kings horses and all the kings men," I whispered into the night, and I pointed to where each heartbeat chorused. "Seven little maids, all in a row."

I think I surprised them. Spike always said I was creepy when I was drunk and drugged. Said I reminded him of a wicked plum, whatever that was. And maybe I was creepy, but hey, I was on a roll.

I could just barely make them out, and my empathy was going haywire, even with the drugs. Pointing to the youngest one, I named him, "Pride," and I could see him flinch back in surprise. Moving on to the only woman in a group, I continued, "Anger." The laid-back blonde was "Sloth," the handsome brunette was "Lust," the mousy, average one was "Envy," the slightly bulky one was "Gluttony."

And a smile touched the corners of my mouth as I stared at their leader and laughed, "Greed."

Jesse struggled to a sitting position and eyed the newcomers, and the newcomers, for their part, looked as though they were torn between confusion and anger. Shocked into not moving, but wanting nothing more than to tear my throat out.

What can I say? I have that effect on people.

A nasty sort of smile crossed Greed's face. I could tell by his stance and the way the others deferred to him that he was probably a high-ranking military man, and the impressive arsenal each of them toted strengthened that opinion. His voice carried a heavy-handed authority as he asked, "Alexander Lavelle Harris?"

"S'my name," I slurred. "What can I do for you ladies?" Spike was a bad influence, but it was worth it to see the heated blush come to the men's faces.

Anger started forward, her face twisting with her namesake. "Show some respect."

I gave her an appraising look, not __quite__ a leer, and snarked, "What? You look lady enough to me."

"Not me, you little shit-" she started, but Lust put a hand on her shoulder and she bit off the rest of her words. I think that was more because his hand fell off her shoulder and did a bit of naughty wandering, but I can't be sure. And Envy just looked on in... well... envy.

Greed gestured for Pride to step forward, and the young man pulled out a document from one of his pockets and cited, "We, Anthony and Jessica Harris relinquish custody of our son, Alexander Lavelle Harris, to the Federal Psychic Investigation. We hereby acknowledge that, unattended, he is a hazard to the community and we agree that he will remain under the care of the FPI until his eighteenth birthday, at which time he will be assessed." Pride paused for a moment, and something very similar to satisfaction entered his voice as he continued, "If he is found fit to re-enter society, he will do so. If not, he will continue to remain under the FPI's care until he is no longer a threat. Signed and dated, Anthony and Jessica Harris."

Now, I always knew that my parents would have no qualms selling me out if the opportunity presented itself, but that doesn't mean I was going to rejoice in being shifted over to some government organization with a smile on my face or anything. I can't exactly explain all the thoughts that went through my head, but it basically boiled down to, "Find Spike."

Spike would know what to do. Spike could take us away. Spike could keep us safe.

Then Sloth drew his gun and shot Jesse.

I don't remember what happened after that.

Later the doctors would tell me that I went into some kind of psychic overload. They'd say that experiencing someone else's pain like that broke whatever mental barrier I'd subconsciously built in my head.

Me? I say I went insane.

Apparently I tackled Sloth and snapped his neck before his stunned teammates pulled me off. I broke three of Anger's ribs, one of which punctured her lung. I fractured Pride's wrist. I gave Gluttony a concussion. I shattered both of Envy's kneecaps. And let's just say, Lust won't be having children.

Greed got me in the end though.

The only thing I regret is that I don't remember giving him a bloody nose before he did it.

What I __do__ remember is waking up strapped to a bed in a small, white room. And then they started me on the long road of rehabilitation.

I found myself wishing that they'd shot me along with Jesse. If you've never gone through withdrawal, you can't even __begin__ to guess what the pain is like. It started sort of slow on Day One. My body could handle it, or so I thought, but then, I'd never tried to live without it before.

At first it was just a few tremors, and my skin felt cold and clammy. That followed true 'til Day Three. It crept up on me until every cell in my body was telling me that I __needed__ a fix, and I needed it __bad__. My eyes watered to the point where I couldn't see. My breath stuck in my chest and every inhalation was short. I don't know if that was because I didn't have the willpower, or if my lungs couldn't handle it. My only respite was my fitful sleep.

By Day Six, even that eluded me. I couldn't stop shaking. I could barely __move__, but my body wouldn't stop shaking. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. Every time one of the military goons fed me, I just puked it back up.

In retrospect, the fact that I got to sully their uniforms makes me happy. They called it "symptoms of withdrawal."

I called it community service.

Each day their impersonal doctors would check up on me, documenting me on their little clipboards. I kept trying to tell them that I'd be fine if they'd just give me a fix. I told them a lot of things, most of which I'm not particularly proud of. I told them I hated them and that I needed them in the same breath. I told them I'd help them if they'd just help me. I said I'd do anything, if I could just have a little heroin to clear my head.

They kept me clean for four weeks straight out of hell. I survived it, but just barely.

The day I stopped begging them was the day they deemed fit to introduce me to the other members of their little operation. I might have been going insane, but I wasn't stupid. I heard the guards gossiping about the newest project: an army of elite psychics to serve the government's every little whim.

It made sense in a way. What better way to tell if an ambassador is lying then to stick a telepath in the room as the President's Aide? Who better to negotiate with other countries than an empath who can push ideas on a purely emotional level? And who's going to connect an assassination to that poor schmuck who just happens to spontaneously combust?

The FPI hadn't managed to sell the idea just yet, but that's what the project was all about: a trial run with five psychics to __prove__ that it could work. A study group to show the Congress that psychics were a valuable, yet completely untapped resource.

They called us the Core.

In between the shivers and the vomiting, I learned all about my new playmates: a Japanese kid named Yoshi who could do something called Astral Projection, an Indian American girl, Anne, who could talk to animals, Justin, the all-star football player who could heal wounds with a single touch, and a Latino chick named Maria who could teleport.

All of them had joined the project willingly.

Apparently, the government only wanted people who were actually __interested__ in helping, but they'd made an exception for yours truly. Something about the magnitude of my abilities.

Of course, it didn't hurt that I was under eighteen and that legally all they needed was the signature of the two fucks that raised me.

I was still weak when they moved me. Two brutes just stepped into my cell one day, grabbed my arms, and half-dragged, half-carried me to my new quarters. Thankfully someone had told them about my Psychometry because they were careful to only touch the bits of me that were clothed. The hallway was brighter than my cell had been, and it hurt so much I had to keep my eyes closed, but I heard the surprised gasp of a girl, and some quiet whispering when they dumped me onto a bed.

"New kid," one of them said tersely. "Doctors said he'll be out of it for a while. Don't touch his skin."

And then they left me there, wondering why I'd even been born.

Without the drugs, my gifts had spiked. Had anyone touched me in that skin-on-skin contact sort of way, I'd have probably lost it. As it was, my empathy fed me the dirt on my new comrades. Two of them were disgusted with me; apparently they were familiar with the symptoms of withdrawal. One of them was completely disinterested, and the last... the last took me by surprise. I sensed kindness, compassion, and concern for my wellbeing.

I hadn't felt anything like that since the last time I'd seen Spike.

My eyes were still closed, but I made out some of their whispers.

"He looks pretty bad...shouldn't the doctors still be looking after him?"

"Not much they can do for him, Anne-sempai."

"What do you mean, Yoshi?"

"He means the _hijo de la pueta's _a fuckin' junkie, _niña_."

I didn't want to hear it, so I blocked them all out and tried to fall asleep. It didn't work, but at least it distracted me. And when the Sandman finally decided I'd suffered enough, right before the darkness overtook me, I remember thinking, "Please, God, don't let me wake up."

That was my first and only prayer. The sanctimonious bastard didn't even have the decency to answer me.

I hate roosters. But I hate government officials more, especially when they're dumping a bucket of water on my head and singsonging, "Rise and shine, you little shit."

Aren't you proud, mom and dad? This is the fruit of your taxes.

I opened my eyes, automatically scanning the room for potential enemies, asshole officials, and anything I could use as a weapon. Spike's training was that far ingrained in my thick head.

Other than my sadistic wakeup call, the room was empty. I figured they didn't want their precious ESPers knowing how easy it was to brutalize a fellow teammate. The dude got in a few good hits before I managed to break one of his fingers. I wanted to do more damage, but a couple of backup goons and a doctor busted into the room.

As long as I live, I'll never forget the stunned expressions on their faces. Then again, I guess it's not everyday you see a junkie pinning a military man facedown on the ground screaming, "Who's the rooster now, bitch?"

And so began my special training.

They led me into a classroom where I got my first look at my new playmates. I pegged the dark-haired oriental kid as Yoshi. His face scrunched up in a sneer when I walked into room before fading back to a slightly bored expression.

The longhaired, dark-skinned chick glared at me, and I would have muttered a "You know you want me," but one of the goons behind me pushed me forward.

My last two teammates looked like they could have been brother and sister. Fair-skinned, blonde hair, and identically brilliant smiles. Well, the over-muscled jock __was__ smiling, until he saw me, but the petite girl's smile didn't fade at all. In fact, it looked like she even turned the shine up a notch.

They were all seated at a long, metal table. Contrary to the static cell that had been my world for the past few weeks, the room was painted a pleasant shade of light blue, and the floor was carpeted.

"Ah, Alexander," the official at the front of the table smiled warmly, "so glad to see you could join us. Please, have a seat."

The goon gave me another push, so I slipped into one of the cushioned chairs. If anyone noticed my wet hair or the shiner on my left eye, no one commented. "Sorry," I said, "I must have missed the memo."

I'm pretty proud that there was only a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

"Yes, well, you did have a rather rough night. I can see how that might have happened."

Oh, I thought, FPI agents are comedians now. What __is__ the world coming to?

The blonde jock, who I figured was probably Justin, snickered, so I turned my nastiest smile on him. Without taking my eyes away from the kid, I said, "So, I guess introductions are in order?"

"How remiss of me," the man said. He gestured to the Japanese boy and began, "This is-"

"I already know who they are," I interrupted swiftly.

"Really?" The man's eyebrow quirked a bit, and I resisted the impulse to telekinetically nudge the steaming cup of coffee on the table into his lap.

Rather than answering him directly, I pointed to the Latino girl and said, "Maria Lopez. Teleportation." I nodded at the Japanese kid, "Yoshi Takamura. Astral Projection." I jerked my thumb in the direction of the two blondes, "Anne Vasquez and Justin Hart, who respectively talk to animals and heal injuries with a single touch."

They all stared at me, eyes wide, except for the government official who seemed pleased. I continued blandly, "I wasn't asking who they are. I was asking who __you__ are."

"General Anthony Walsh." The bastard even had the audacity to tip me an imaginary hat. Then he smiled, "I wasn't aware that anyone had introduced you to our little project."

"If you're referring to the Core," I responded, "then no one has. But I do have ears, and even doctors talk a lot when they think their patient is unconscious."

Yoshi shot out of his chair and hissed, "Show some respect."

I glanced at him, then back to General Welsh. "Terribly sorry," I said unconvincingly, "Gimme a fix and I promise I'll be a good boy."

"As amusing as it might be," he replied, nonplused, "I didn't send you through a month of rehab just so you could fall back on old habits."

"Yeah, well I didn't ask my parents to sell me to you, and I didn't ask you to shoot my best friend, and I sure as hell don't remember enrolling in rehab either, but hey? What do I care? It's only my fuckin' life," I said bitterly.

"Fuckin' delusional junkie," I heard Maria mutter.

"Maria!" Anne exclaimed, then looked at me with pity.

Goddamn Scarlet O'Hara wannabe.

"Regardless of what you believe, Alexander," General Walsh said mildly, "Your parents only wanted the best for you. And while you are in this program, I would ask that you refrain from swearing. It's unbecoming of a child."

Before I could open my mouth to protest being called a child, he continued, "Until you turn eighteen, you are under my direct supervision. Which means, for the next three years, you will be working in this program. These young men and women," he gestured around the table, "will be your teammates. Other than your teachers, they will be your only human contact. I suggest you try to make friends.

"You are here because you are one of the strongest ESPers we've ever encountered, but you are still growing, and you need to learn how to control your powers. We only want to help you, Alexander."

Now, it was probably a dumb thing to do, but I snickered. I mean, watching him spout of his portentous bullshit and seeing the way the other kids just lapped it up was just… sickening. General Walsh didn't give a shit about me; he wanted his project to succeed. He wanted me because I had power, and everything else was secondary.

Without a word, the two goons who were still standing on either side of my chair reached for my arms. As they hauled me up, Walsh said, "I am sorry you see it that way. As much as it pains me, I think that you need a few more weeks before you can join our little family."

The bastard actually managed to sound sincerely sorry.

As I was "escorted," (read: manhandled) from the room, I heard Anne murmur, "Is that really necessary, sir?"

Justin piped up, "Do we even __need__ him?"

Before I could hear Walsh's reply, the door shut behind me and the big uglies with a click. I knew the "few weeks" that would follow would probably be pretty bad.

I just didn't realize __how__ bad until the goons led me to a tiny room with no windows, no light, and an solid, iron door.

Solitary confinement.

Jesus, it fuckin' figured.

o

**Translations:**

_-sempai:_ the Japanese use suffixes to convey respect and standing. Someone they respect who is roughly the same age as they are would be classified as "-sempai."

_hijo de le pueta:_ "son of a bitch"

_niña_: "young girl," affectionate.

o


End file.
